


Assasin's Love Blade

by Eureka234



Series: I Couldn't Tell if You Were Blessed or Cursed [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Blooming Rose, Dialogue Heavy, Drabble, Dubious Morality, Experimental Style, F/F, Female Friendship, One Shot, Present Tense, Self-Reflection, Sensuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-10-02 18:33:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10224461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eureka234/pseuds/Eureka234
Summary: Isabela visits an acquaintance for advice on what to do about Hawke.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Schattenriss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schattenriss/gifts).



> Can you tell I've nearly finished reading Vladimir Nabokov's Lolita? I wanted to try write something in the style... though of course I can't come close to the genius of that book. Still, it was interesting to experiment with. 
> 
> For Schattenriss, because he gave me the idea for this, even if it turned out differently from what I had in mind at the beginning.

A killer is the one with the devil’s eyes, with darkness and impurity in the soul, severed heartstrings, a beast wrought by torment. No killer can exist without having a piece of themselves murdered without mercy, an organ pulled out, twisted and replaced. Forever they are scorned by society, forever they are shunned for unspeakable cruelty, for their inhumanity. Even the ones who love them, their friends, look upon the killer with misunderstanding. The question lingers in their minds, of how, how, _how_ could a person begin, continue and complete such an act? A confusion that runs so deep it poisons their every drop of blood, the devastation that another life, innocent or guilty, has stolen and crushed, a precious shard of another’s soul, their life.

And the questions lives there, a scar, an unhealable wound, a river that never changes direction, a lake that keeps plunging deeper, mistaken for the ocean. The unforgiving abuse of life, the Maker’s judgement, the inevitable unpredictable rift pulls them away from their destination, it tears them away with brute force, the demon that brings the strongest man to his death. When a person is murdered, the emotions of their loved ones, friends and family, are destroyed. A murder of one is a slaughter of many.

This is what they think about blades, about violence, of choosing to take away a life with a weapon in one’s palm. However, another blade is often mistaken, one that can be the cause of the agony of murder.

* * *

 

Isabela, a common thief, as shameless with her body as she is with her daggers, enters the lounge. Rather clean and tidy for a brothel, she wordlessly observes, with lanterns that provide as much uplift as the sunlight on a stroll outdoors. It does not look like a place to receive unholy pleasures, it has a rowdy bustle of a bar, and how it stinks of one. It is almost as full of men as ale in their tankards, three quarters full, so the patrons are _mostly_ men, dressed plainly. She notices the sweat that glistens on their necks, the trickles of alcohol that drip onto the diamond shaped tiles, the condensation around each glass, like it is a hand they wish to hold, a wet, cold companion to drink comfort from.

A number of pairs of eyes meet hers. They are to be ignored.

The pirate knows who she is seeking, therefore she doesn’t dither. She doesn’t stop to play the games of conversation and pretend she is interested. She pays the fee of two gold coins to the Madame, a gamble, a dare she is prepared to lose, and paces around the chairs and customers like evading the webs of a spider. Searching the workers is a requirement. The gold will not be in vein.

Blue eyes glimmer, a tall figure makes herself known, after a quarter of an hour, at least that’s what the Madame has assured her. It is a blue unlike any other, one that refracts the torches and amplifies a sharpness that isabela suspects suits the woman’s character. Outside an adjadcent room and onto a chair she travels. A stranger, yet the closest stranger Isabela knows- Faith.

How majestic she appears, exquisitely immobile, like a feline examining the empty wilderness for a single mouse, so motionless she might be impossible to see. Isabela is not an absent minded rodent, though a fellow cat.

They reintroduce themselves for politeness' sake. They have met before, only once before, and that is reason enough for Isabela to seek Faith out. When two cats join their minds together, plots formulate.

Faith speaks little. From the vigilance in her posture, in her choice of words, it is clear she is not to be double crossed. The smile is wide. The expression must have some truth, as much truth as any mirror can. Isabela suspects it is a trap for smaller, more neglectful animals. Emptiness remains in Faith’s pupils, terrifyingly and obnoxiously infinite, a hint that she is, yes, a deceptive predator.

That is that. Isabela is chosen. The Rose woman marches up the stairs as though it is a ministration; every step is perfunctory, yet perfected to be upright and rhythmic. She must have strong legs, Isabela decides, and for a moment, she almost wants to test the muscular endurance of those long legs, not knowing how, only knowing the desire exists.

Nothing of consequence occurs until the door closes. No secrets are spilled until the handle is turned enough to ensure the door will not drift ajar. The walls may not be thick, they are probably very thin, though Isabela feels a comfort like this is a standalone cottage barraging them from the rest of the world.

 “You appear pleased with yourself already,” Faith remarks. She sits down on the edge of the bed as she did the chair earlier, her fingers interlocked on her lap.

“And you don’t look happy at all,” Isabela points out, sitting promptly down next to her, “Do men in the Marches get off to your ice cold glare?”

The room is comforting and sultry, with silky bed covers, rich red bed curtains and the fact there are curtains at all, coverings to hide those who wish to, or paintings to enliven the walls, prowling a line between innocence and depravity. In a bedchamber that confuses whores and virgins alike in its intentions, Faith’s voice is flat and indolent. “Tell me, what did you pay me for?”

“Some fun,” Isabela replies.

“I require more specifics than that.”

How lovely it would be to incur touch of a woman, for the first time in a long while. It is so long ago Isabela cannot name a precise day or season.

“I’d like a break from all the fools with nothing in their brains,” Isabela explains, “I’d much prefer to lay down with you.”

Raised eyebrows flash by, yet the prostitute’s expression doesn’t change. “Very well.”

Unabashed, Isabela removes her shirt, the white has stains, and curls up on her side. Obediently, Faith spoons in front of her. For a glorious few seconds there is only the sensation of Isabela’s bare skin on the back of Faith’s corset, a pattern of string, and tightly woven material press onto her breasts. It is cold, refreshingly so, a drink to forget a woe or five.

“How much coin did you pay to see me?”

“Two. It would be an insult to you to pay anything less.”

“What else can I do for you?”

“Stop it with that kind of talking. I said I want to talk, so _talk_ to me.”

Faith moves uncomfortably, as if _talking_ is equivalent of an undesired cock against her. “What would you like to speak to me about?”

“Your friend, Samson,” Isabela decides, “He’s interesting. How did you meet him?”

“Why do you care?”

“I care. And now you’re acting like an unoiled chain. Do you not do the talking thing?”

Faith sighs. “You must want to talk to me because you’re bothered. By men, did you say?”

“I trust that you understand what ridiculous specimens they are,” Isabela says, “I’m tired of all the messing around, if I’m honest. Messing with my head, that is.”

“I see.” Faith really doesn’t seem fond of talking. “Did one of them pester you?”

“They weren’t stalking and calling me names. I’m used to that sort of pestering,” Isabela clarifies, “They’re easy to get rid of. I can basically sweep them away with a broom. No, a specific one tried to do the feelings rubbish on me.”

“Ah uh.”

“Was that recognition, I hear?”

“It is part of my job to keep feelings and work separate,” Faith says business like.

“You’re a good worker here, then.” Isabela remarks, wrapping her arms around Faith and stroking her chest through her blouse. “A decent person knows to keep to the rules.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Look, stop worrying about all this service-me garbage. I am not decent the same way you are.”

Faith starts to unlace her corset. Isabela realizes how annoying this must be to do, and does it for her, watching as it slacks and weakens like weight over someone’s knees.

“How did this man mess with your head?” the Rose worker inquires.

“Like I said, he wanted to bring feelings in,” Isabela remarks, “and he tried to be all noble and nice about it. I have seen that too many times. It’s like seeing a broken ship’s flag stitched up through the middle – we all know it’s going to fall apart.”

Faith doesn’t reply immediately, pulling her corset off. “Why does that toy with your mind? You seem certain he isn’t trustworthy, so I would let him go.”

“Sometimes I wonder if we are the crazy ones,” Isabela points out, “Yes, men are nearly entirely idiots, but even the biggest idiot could be pleasant to keep around more than once.”

Faith removes her blouse and lets it fall to the floor. “Yes.”

Isabela runs her hands over Faith’s shoulders and down to her now bare breasts. Her skin is a light shade of bronze, cold and slightly scarred, the toughest or most worn armour. “You don’t try to be, but you are charming with the quiet, coy act.”

“It is only part of my work…. unless you want me to say something.”

“Yes, I do,” Isabela replies, “Are the repeat clients here a little stupid? Do all of them turn into morons, or is that only a rumour?”

“Some,” Faith admits, “Some within the first two minutes, otherwise at the end, others at appointment two or three.”

“Who gets thrown out? Be honest.”

“Four a week was the worst I’ve seen,” Faith replies, “It depends. The longest we went without banning anyone was a year and half. Plenty more get suspended. I consider it just as severe, if not worse. A suspended bastard is only a better at not unleashing his cruelty. It doesn’t mean it isn’t there. If anything, it could mean he is more dangerous.”

“Judging by those accurate numbers, what do you think the idiot to normal person rate is?”

“I suspect there is an eighty percent delusion of normalcy,” Faith mentions, “but I don’t consider the number trustworthy to judge people.”

“Why not?”

“Most put on their best smile, all their manners. They like making a good impression,” Faith says, “They keep their neuroses hidden to be expelled here. Likely, they are cruel monsters outside. The number of untrustworthy men I consider to be closer to ninety percent.”

“Really? I better sell my soul to the Maker.”

“I wouldn’t say so,” Faith says, “If you’re deciding between one sexual encounter to the next, the men can be assessed this way with little consequences.”

“I could have explained better,” Isabela realizes, “This man and I have _conversations_ surrounded by others, too- long ones, up to hours at a time.”

Silence. 

“Right.”

“That’s all?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s stop this.” Isabela pulls Faith by the shoulder and rolls her so she is lying supine, “Can I give you a good time or not? And none of this service-me nonsense.”

Faith wasn’t looking at Isabela. Her gaze is fixated on one of the curtains. Though slowly she grabs Isabela’s hand and curls it into a fist, gently, one finger at a time, as if each one is fragile.

* * *

 

It is a week or so until the two women see each other again in the Rose, though for continuity and memory’s sake it is easier to compile the conversations together. Truth be told, Isabela isn’t sure which one happens first anyway.

Faith is undressing as requested, diffident. “Did you decide what to do about that man?”

“I’m still deciding. Sadly, there’s not much opportunity to jump him during _conversations_.”

The Rose woman’s eyebrows furrow, like there is nothing worse than this talking business.

“Any semblance of romance feels well and truly outside of my ability,” Isabela watches Faith’s chest become exposed and she steps out of heels, “He tried to buy me a meal the other day. Oh dear. I told him to spoil himself instead. He turned grouchy. It was quite stressful, really. What do you think those guys want us to do anyway?”

Faith frowns. “I don’t know.”

  
“I don’t believe you.” Isabela kicks Faith’s shoes to one side. Then about the session, “Maybe I can pretend to be a man. What do you think?”  
“So long as you’re an intelligent one.”

Isabela chuckles. “I was thinking the same. Crouch down on all fours, Faith.”

Faith does as she is told. The Rivain Pirate walks proudly –Is it possible to strut in such a small space?- and kneels behind Faith on the floor, examining her folds, carefully with a few fingers. “How many have whacked themselves in and out of here today, I wonder?”

“Fifteen,” Faith answers.

“Maker, you poor puppy,” Isabela strokes a finger to her clit, “You look nice on the floor, here. Don’t doubt that. How many have played here?”

“I forgot.”

“Were they dreadful?”

“Most were adequate.”

“Adequate is like saying it’s nearly the worst experience of your life, and that’s not _good_ ,” Isabela scolds She removes her fingers and takes off her own skirt. “How you do this every day I have no idea.”

“It is not for you to know.”  

“If you want to be boring and not tell me, that’s your loss,” Isabela responds.

"Their performance is irrelevant unless they have specifically asked to be taught. Even then, a mind can not always be taught to be flexible and considerate. My pleasure is not the goal. If it happens, it is a fortunate side effect and nothing more."

Isabela considers this. “Here’s how we’re going to do this. I will do what I want to you, and you can give me your honest opinion on my questions. Short answers won’t be tolerated. Actually, they’ll make me really pissed off. Is that fair?”

  
“Understood.”

“Maker, you can sound more enthusiastic than that.”

“ _Yes, please_.”

Faith even shakes as she says it. It is less erotic, more a helpless tone.

“Much better.” Isabela laughs. “You need to get paid higher wages for that face, or just being here at all.” The woman softly glides her hands over Faith’s ass. Her body shape is quite lovely, even if some of her bones are prominent. “What have you done to impress men that are better than others?”

 “Have sex with them.”

“What about talking?”

“Construct a well-supported argument that overcomes theirs.”

“Do you have a romantic side in you or not?” Isabela brushes Faith’s clit it in a circular motion.

“I don’t know.”

“Did you get sick of men and love? Is that why you’re here? It would be why I'd do this work.”

“I wanted to work here,” Faith replies, “My cynicism has nothing to do with it.”

“How exciting. Please elaborate.”

No answer.

“Look, I don’t like talking about _feelings_ ,” Isabela remarks, “but we’ve all been there.”

“If you mean love, then tell me your story first.”

“After my first husband – who I hated- got stabbed in the back of the head, I fell for a man who wanted to marry me.”

“I’ve never been married,” Faith replies, “Did you marry him?”  
“I ran away.”

Isabela licks her fingers and continues her work, thinking she mustn’t be doing this properly, or Faith has been exaggerating her responses up until now. “Really, I need your help. How should I behave with this man?”

 “That depends in what sense you care. Do you pretend to care or do you properly care?”

“See, this is why I’m asking you. You get it, you don't try to tell me how to feel,” Isabela answers. She licks some fingers on her other hand and brings it to Faith’s filthier hole (well, to some). “I’d say I care slightly more than the average person.”

“Then do slightly more than you would to a stranger,” Faith replies, “But my advice may not be worth your inquisitive ears. I don’t trust anybody.”

“Why don’t you?”

“Why did you run from the man who wanted to make you his wife?” 

_Changing the subject, probably because she doesn't like you, Isabela. Or she didn't like your fisting last time. Typical. You could have done worse, like punching her by accident._

“I didn’t think it would work,” Isabela says, “Not _actually_ work. Andraste, never. Love isn’t for me. It is like solitary confinement.”

“I disagree,” Faith answers, “Love isn’t a prison.”

“You think so?”

Faith noticeably inhales deeper. “You don’t know what it means to be imprisoned.”

Isabela leans forward and brings her mouth to where she had been placing her fingers.

* * *

 

The most recent time Isabela visits Faith is before Hawke went to the Deep Roads. Stupid Garrett, such a stupid, nonsensical boy. 

“Good evening,” Faith says, solemnly, as though at a funeral. She is sitting down on the edge of the bed, in a dress today.

“You don’t have any idea how to smile, do you?”

The door closes loudly. Isabela has little patience today. Stupid Garrett. Stupid boys trying to be men when they are only boys. 

Faith puts on a very believable smile.

“Impressive. You _are_ good!” Isabela says, excitedly, “Delightful. I thought you’d be fake smiling around me all the time.”

“I try not to with those I have met outside of work,” Faith says, “It is irresponsible of me to mix the two at all, but I thought since I don’t know you well anyway, that it doesn’t matter.”

“But your man fellow, what’s his name…”

  
“Samson.”

“He clearly did something interesting.”

“Keep weaving his name into conversation and I’ll ensure you are suspended,” Faith cut across her, sharply, “I am here to please you, Isabela. Or did you want to talk some more?”

“I can do both,” Isabela says with a grin. If Faith wasn’t going to surrender her ethical work habits, Isabela wouldn’t fight them anymore. “I thought for a while about what you said. I want to know what you meant.”  
“About what?”

“That love isn’t a prison,” Isabela remarks, “If it isn’t that, I want to know your secret. And remove your lovely clothes, before I do it for you.”

“I don’t understand your meaning.” Faith’s gaze is distant, perhaps more empty than Isabela has ever seen it. “Love distorts reality. It can pull you out of this reality into a new one. It is the only key to freedom. It tears the limits of the world apart, makes someone believe there are no limits, that there never were, and that there never should be any.”

She removes the dress with a simple, quick movement. 

“I don’t understand who you’ve ever been in love with,” Isabela mentions, kicking off her boots the lazy way, “but I am little envious, to tell the truth, if it feels like that. Perhaps you can introduce me to one.”

“No. It does not matter. I don’t want that freedom of love,” Faith continues, as she slips out of her undergarments, “I want to be normal.”

“Normalcy is dull.”

The Rivain pirate removes her blouse. 

  
“Only to those who _are_ normal,” Faith replies, “My prison are my legs, my mind, my irreparable, useless body.”

 _What an odd comment to make,_ she thinks. The prostitute's body does not look deformed or broken to Isabela. 

“You are the best kind of normal,” Isabela mentions with a smile, “messed up kind of normal. That’s the type of person I like. Murderers, criminals… we’re all one of them, in one way or another. There’s no other way to live fully in these cities. The society is too broken. Yet, the Maker just doesn’t put those nasty ones together like He used to. They’re all about grabbing tits and ass, not hearts. Never will a man go after a heart. It’s like plunging his hand into a bucket of ice and leaving it there until his fingers rot.”

Faith is smiling, though she is not looking at Isabela at all. “A heart is a knife. It will slice them apart. But a mind is the one that decides that we should hold the knife and attack. My heart is not clever enough to make intelligent choices. My heart is clumsy and stupid. But you have a mind, you have legs that move how they are supposed to, you have a functioning body. You have no prison. It is a wise choice to love, in your case. And I have finished talking to you.”

The speech may be over, yes. Isabela tries to determine what Faith means. That love is powerful, and prisons differ between them. Perhaps love isn’t a set of keys to lock a person away, but an opportunity to open another door. Several, even. Traverse a path she has not yet explored. If Isabela had married to the man she loved, would it had been what she believed, if the keys were different? It is difficult to be certain now. Though she could discover how many secret passageways Hawke may open, which ones he closes, then decide.

Faith is not a predator in the conventional sense, though she is not anything Isabela can put a word to. Something bizarre and unusual remains about her. Samson and Faith are both a tad mental. It suits them. Maybe they balance each other, or brew storms. 

Connection is all that matters here. The conversation between Faith and Isabela does not end, though the language changes. They speak with their skin, with an embrace, with a kiss, and pleasure. Isabela knows what she must do next.

Rummaging through her clothes, nearly falling face first on the floor as she does, she lifts up her daggers, admiring their casing for a moment, and places them snuggly on the pillow next to Faith, dispassionate spectators of the sensual display, partially obscured by her flowing dark hair.

The pirate leans to Faith’s ear and runs another finger down the pattern etched into the blade’s covering. “Do you want the daggers hurt you,” she whispers, “or just mine?”


End file.
